


Play Along, Piggy

by Aris_Silverfin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, If You Squint - Freeform, Other, Weight Gain, and fattened up, belly stuffing, mycroft gets captured, mystrade, non con feeding, non con weight gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 08:51:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2103150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris_Silverfin/pseuds/Aris_Silverfin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a Prompt: Mycroft being captured (by Moran or Moriarty? I don't know, it's up to you!) and being fed to a hefty weight. Extra love if you can get him being all embarrassed at the end when he's found again.</p><p>Mycroft has gotten captured by Moriarty and his cohort Sebastian Moran. The consulting criminal seems to have rather unusual plans for the elder Holmes brother however as they involve copious amounts of cakes, sweets, and fatty foods. He can only hope his rescue comes in time, or he might well be needing a new cell soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play Along, Piggy

He expected that he should have seen it coming. A man as prolific as Mycroft Holmes drew attention, even from those paid to ignore the influence. Still, enemies were not so easily bought and James Moriarty had little interest in money, fame, or even power. None of the conventional mediums of bargaining that Mycroft was used to orchestrating. Any of these could have the world's leaders dangling from his fingertips like so many fish made into marionettes by the lures they had swallowed without thought, eagerly even, to leave them dangling suspended on the lines and at his mercy.

But no, Moriarty was different and dangerous in the way that few outside of the Holmes family were. He didn't care about any of the usual fare. James Moriarty thrived on chaos, puzzles, humiliation, the whimsy of a spoiled three-year-old who coped with boredom by torturing the family cat.

And so now, Mycroft found himself trapped, likely in for the very same treatment that he had given the master criminal just a few months earlier. He sighed. He couldn't tell much about the room he was in as he was securely blindfolded. The wall behind his arms, which were bound, was cool, unfinished, mildly damp. Reasonable to expect somewhere underground as well, particularly when combined with the musty smell. And... no. A warm sweet smell was wafting closer. Rather like... something freshly baked.

"Nice of you to drop in Mr. Holmes," came the soft Irish murmur of one James Moriarty.

"Mr. Moriarty," Mycroft replied, "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

"Oh, call me Jim. _Please_ ," returned the other man. A warm gust near Mycroft's lips told him that the consulting criminal was very very close. They were both silent. Mycroft was not in the mood for whatever little game Moriarty had planned. Unlike Sherlock, he had not the patience for such trivial pursuits.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Yes, well if we could get down to business-"

"Oh, don't be so _boooring_ ," Moriarty groaned. Mycroft could almost picture the pout beneath those dark dead eyes. He continued as if his captor had not spoken.

"I'm sure there are a variety of reasons for kidnapping me on the eve of a very important meeting with the prime minister. So if you could kindly explain what you were hoping to negotiate from me, I'd be happy to-"

"NO! No. Noooo," shouted Moriarty, still close enough that Mycroft noted with distaste that there were flecks of spittle hitting his lips. Then the madman calmed and murmured softly once again. "I don't want anything from you, Mycroft Holmes. Well, maybe one thing. You've got a lot of it!" He sniggered.

Mycroft sighed. "Alright. Name it."

"Your dignity. All that proper poise and puffed up pride. I want it, Myc."

Mycroft blinked beneath his blindfold. "I beg your pardon?"

Moriarty gave a high laugh. "Oooh, this'll be good. You heard me, Mr. Holmes," he murmured, voice soft once again, "I want you trussed up like a Christmas turkey. I want you rumpled, and ruined. I want you to lose all that control you've so carefully maintained all these years..."

Mycroft felt a slight heat creep into his face. He wasn't... well-versed in those matters. But it did sound rather like...

"And how do you intend to do this?" he asked, his tone still cold.

"By making you my good little Piggy," Moriarty replied. There was a shift in the room a clink, and then something thick and creamy was pressed to Mycroft's lips. It smelled... sweet, almost cloyingly so. Was this how he was meant to be poisoned? By sweet? No, Moriarty was too clever to do so, too cruel to let his newest victim escape. Mycroft had always admired the man's thoroughness.

"Mycroft," the criminal sang, smoothing what felt quite sticky along Mycroft's lips, "Eat. Or I'll have to make you."

The prisoner weighed his options, then cautiously parted his lips. Thick, sticky, creamy, and very sweet icing was stuffed into his mouth as a result. He nearly choked at the sudden onslaught, his tongue working in hurried swipes to collect the mess before it blocked his breathing.

Moriarty was giggling, still feeding him endlessly and murmuring, "That's good. That's a good piggy. Eat up. You'll be going to market soon."

Mycroft drew himself up indignantly. "Mr. Moriarty, please. There's no need for-"

"Moooooore," he sang, then cackled again as Mycroft's mouth was filled with moist chocolate fairycake.

That indeed seemed to be Moriarty's favorite tune, as Mycroft soon learned that any attempt at reasoning or bargaining with the man only resulted in more sugary calorie-filled food being forced into his mouth. He considered spitting it out, but that idea was horribly disgusting, undignified. He would not give Moriarty what he wanted, so he accepted each bite with grace even as his stomach filled and began to strain against his tailoring. Yet Mycroft did not let a sound escape him the entire time. Though he thanked whatever deities there might be when Moriarty ran out of consumables.

The man prodded his overfilled stomach through the shirt, but Mycroft steeled himself, refusing his body the slightest wince or response.

"Good start, little piggy," Moriarty praised. "I'll send you some dinner later."

There were footsteps, then the sound of a heavy door and a heavy bolt being drawn. Mycroft allowed himself the smallest groan, slouching forward. His heavy belly pressing against the tops of his thighs. Well. It seemed Moriarty was not just drafting an image. Mycroft swallowed, and tried his best to think about the overfull fog filling his head. At dinner, he was permitted to see, though he remained bound, his belly growing heavy and dragging against the bonds as well as his trousers. Thankfully he was untied after a few days. There wasn't much room in his cell, nor a window. Just a heavily barred door with a small trapdoor for trays to be pushed through and a small opening at the top, too small for even a child to fit through. It was poorly lit, damp, cool, but completely composed of concrete. So few options for actively getting out. Better to wait. Learn the game and survive. If Moriarty's attention span was unchanged, it should only be a matter of weeks before he grew tired of it.

He learned quickly that it was easier just to accept the mountains of food Jim had sent to him everyday. He was undoubtedly under surveillance as whenever the slightest crumb or trace was not licked from the plate, the madman would return with a portion equally as daunting. If he refused then, well, that was when things became distinctly uncomfortable. A long tube was introduced to his throat and the foodstuffs were pumped into him until he felt really quite heavy and ill with it all. No, it was better to grudgingly go along with eating whatever the surly guard passed under the door eight times a day, usually with a sneer and a rather taunting "Oink, oink!"It gave him more time alone and to think. Though, there was no point in denying that the caloric extravagances had a clear effect on Mycroft's physique. His belly felt almost constantly full, stuffed to the brim, or distinctly bloated.

Mycroft had learned that the guard's name was Sebastian Moran, which he had suspected since the dishonorably discharged ex-colonel vanished from his lower grade surveillance files. He'd meant to get someone on tracking him down again, but had been distracted by a rather serious plot to infiltrate and dismantle the English Parliament. Well, Mycroft certainly knew where the man was now. That was something. Though the ex-colonel was hardly a goldmine of information. He had attempted to extract a few details with mild conversation but he was clearly as enamored of violence and destruction as Mr. Moriarty was so he only got the most obvious information in return for his wheedling.

"You'll be staying until the boss is through with you. No doubts about that, Porker."

"I am a highly important and strategic player within the world's powers. I doubt anyone would overlook my absence for long," replied Mycroft smoothly on such an occasion. It was true. Someone had to have noticed. Anthea should be taking the proper measures to find him and ensure a safe return. There were many who could be of assistance of course... but so very few he trusted. And an even smaller number that he wanted to owe favors.

"Better hurry up then," Moran replied carelessly.

"With _what_ precisely?" spat Mycroft.

"Oink. Oink."

"Unless that is some sort of acronym, I must insist that you speak in a language I can comprehend."

That had very nearly earned him a black eye. But Moran was clearly under orders not to harm his prisoner.

Instead, the grizzled veteran merely leered at him through the bars on his cell and answered, "Boss likes to think he can get in anyone's head. He reckons the way to yours is through your stomach. So eat up, Fatty."

And then there was a dinner tray fit for a family of four which signified the end of that conversation. Still, it was taking an awfully long time for rescue. He had no distractions but his mind and the food he was endlessly brought. He tried a few exercises once to burn off all the excess energy, but that had only resulted in an astonishingly large cream cake with his tea which left him feeling decidedly sluggish.

There was nothing to do but to grow, to expand, to fatten himself day after day. His trouser button gave out after just over a week. His waistcoat was abandoned soon after. He was rewarded with new track bottoms and a t-shirt another week after that when he split a seam as he sat down. Moriarty's crooning had been nearly intolerable, but Mycroft allowed him his fun, sitting stonily as the criminal hefted and squeezed at his growing belly.

"You're doing so well. You're getting to be a real hog, Mycroft Holmes. Do you know, I think the happiest I've ever seen you has been with a cake. I'll send you more. One a day! My piggy needs to keep growing."

Mycroft felt vaguely ill at the thought. Bigger than this? Bigger than this wobbly jiggly mass on his middle that was beginning to overtake his lap? He only hoped they found him soon. Until cake. More Shepherd's pie. More thick milkshakes. More fried fish, chips, and chicken. More greasy burgers. More cake again.

He required another new set of clothes within the month. He remained in his bed quite often now, his belly too round and bloated to bother getting up. He was thankfully rewarded for his growth with reading materials, something to keep his sluggish mind from turning completely into sugary sludge. Now when Moriarty visited, there was a tape measure in his hand and a notebook under his arm. Then he was made to stand, arms outstretched as he was probed, jiggled, cataloged. Mycroft found it harder and harder to stop the flush he felt from creeping to his cheeks. But he was not like 'normal' people. He wouldn't let his transport betray him so easily.

He had hoped that after a certain amount of gain Moriarty might be satisfied. But it seemed the opposite was true. 10 pounds, 20, 30, 40, 50... and still there was not sign of stopping.

Perhaps he would never be found at all and Moriarty would have to find Mycroft a new cell. The current one was seeming increasingly cramped as he lost track of the days, weeks... was it over three months now? Surely he couldn't have gotten as f-...far along as he had if it were less. The United Kingdom and the United Nations had likely disintegrated by now. Though of course, he counted on Anthea to hold things together. Though if her ability to follow his location and rescue protocol were anything to judge that by he might as well assume all government had been allowed to give away to anarchy or tyranny.

As it turned out, he needn't have doubted Anthea at all. There had been no meals all day. The lights were still off in his cell, so something had happened. Perhaps Moriarty was through with him at last. He huffed as he made to sit up, then thought better of it and rolled onto his side to get out of the cot with creaked and groaned in protest. He stood and waddled to the door, testing it. Still locked. There were familiar footsteps beyond the door.

"Colonel?"

"Flattered, but I was only a captain, sorry."

"Dr. Watson, I presume."

There was a warm chuckle, then John called out to his companions. "Sherlock! He's over here! Greg, come back, it's this one!"

"Stand back," John directed, and Mycroft did, settling down on the bed which sounded quite tortured. There was a heavy thud and a grunt as Mycroft surmised that the army doctor had thrown a shoulder into it.

"I doubt that is a prudent course of action," Mycroft said pointedly.

John swore and there was another thud. Two more pairs of feet came running. Mycroft recognized his brother's long stride and well worn soles, and the more lumbering stride of a certain Detective Inspector. Oh good Lord...

He was suddenly very concerned with his own state. He didn't have a mirror after all, just measurements, weights... The feeling intensified as he heard his brother huff impatiently.

"John, oh for God's sake, let _me."_ There was rattling at the bolt for a minute or so, then the bolt sprang back with a snap and the door swung open. Then someone must have found the lightswitch outside because Mycroft was then quite blinded. He blinked and then looked up again, squinting.

"Ah, brother mine, had I known you would take your time in finding me, I should have directed Anthea to ask someone else," Mycroft said, a bit snippily. He felt heat creep irrevocably to his neck, his cheeks, then his entire face. They were all staring. John was actually gaping at him. The Detective Inspector was just slowly taking in every inch of him, eyes wandering to Mycroft's belly more than twice. Even Sherlock's eyes were wide and shocked. His brother didn't even seem to have registered the complaint.

Mycroft sighed and all three pairs of eyes were immediately on his gut as it expanded. Then they snapped back up to his face with a variety of success. He did his best to steel himself, but he couldn't quite keep from flushing, from trying to cross his arms over his engorged middle and shield it from view.

"Er, yes, well... as you can- I mean that. Yes. Mr. Moriarty was... he had," Mycroft realised he was babbling and furiously clamped his mouth shut, swallowing hard. He felt his heat rise even further. Of course. Of bloody course. He cleared his throat. "If...if you're all... quite done staring. I would like to get out of here. This cell has grown rather... rather drab. If you would excuse me."

He stood with as much dignity as he could master while puffing and grunting, his belly jiggling against his legs as he heaved his bulk to his feet. He waddled towards them. John finally closed his mouth and stepped quite a ways back to let him through. Greg politely stepped back out through the door, hands folded behind his back. Sherlock looked dangerously close to a smirk.

"Glad you're alright," Lestrade murmured quietly, "Er, Anthea is just outside. We texted her as soon as we found out the place was deserted. She'll get you home. Unless you need hospital."

"No... no. Quite alright, Detective Inspector," Mycroft wheezed as he squeezed out of the door and down the hall. He didn't know if that kindness made everything better or worse. "I should very much just... humph, like to rest in my own bed for a night."

"If you still f-"

"Sherlock!" John cut the man off quickly.

"Merely and observation," replied Sherlock haughtily, then muttered, "Never any thanks, or help, as usual. Just sat around and waited for me to do all the leg work typ-"

"Brother, dear," Mycroft said, turning and looking back at Sherlock, "I thank you for your _timely_ assistance. Now if you and Dr. Watson do not wish to wake up in the wrong hemisphere one morning, kindly avoid any mentions of my diet." He gave the pair of them a cold smile, then turned around again.

Sherlock looked about to say something, but Lestrade clapped him on the shoulder and he thought better of it. He looked to John, who shrugged, and then followed after Mycroft as he waddled out of his prison. The Detective Inspector was having rather a hard time not watching the elder Holmes brother's plump rolling arse ahead of him. Then they were out, Mycroft huffing as he got into his car and catching Lestrade's eye. The man flushed and then looked away, getting quickly into his squad car. Sherlock and John were visibly bickering and getting into their own cab.

Odd how quickly things could return to their usual. There was still the matter of tracking James Moriarty of course. But Mycroft figured if the world had held together for a few months without him, he could afford another day's rest. He found himself rather hoping that Anthea had thought to stop by a bakery. He was feeling oddly famished.


End file.
